


A Fellow Creature in Pain

by plutonianshores



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Facials, Gang Rape, Gunplay, Knifeplay, M/M, Multi, Unwilling Arousal, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 00:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21485557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutonianshores/pseuds/plutonianshores
Summary: Hickey intends for Goodsir to serve him and his men
Relationships: Harry D. S. Goodsir/Cornelius Hickey, Harry D. S. Goodsir/many
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	A Fellow Creature in Pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/gifts).

They’d stripped Goodsir of his clothes, Hickey and his band of mutineers, and at first Goodsir thought they intended to freeze him to death. But instead they’d forced him into the center of their camp, the whole group gathered around leering at him, and then facedown onto a makeshift table.

Hickey sat himself next to Goodsir’s head, winding a hand through his hair. "Have at him, lads," he said, pulling Goodsir’s head back until his neck was craned up.

Goodsir didn’t know what he was talking about, and then he did, and a wave of sickness flooded through him as what Hickey meant to happen to him slid into focus. "No," he said, his voice cracking as he tried to get any sort of volume. "No, let me _go_!"

"I don’t think so, Mr. Goodsir." Hickey stroked Goodsir’s head in a parody of affection. "You’re going to be very useful to us. Men have needs, you know, and I’ve got to keep the morale up."

Goodsir tried to struggle away, but hands clamped down on his hips, forcing him into the splintered wood.

Hickey gave a nod over Goodsir’s head, presumably to the man who’d pinned him. "None of that now. I expect you to behave." He dug his fingers into the joints of Goodsir’s jaw. "Open up."

Goodsir did.

Hickey pulled a pistol from his waist and pressed it into Goodsir’s mouth. "I intend for you to service my men however they’d like to have you, Mr. Goodsir, but some of them are understandably nervous about entrusting their members to the mouth of a novice. All those sharp edges, you know. So. Go ahead and show us that you know how it’s done." He cocked the gun, threat clear.

Goodsir squeezed his eyes shut and did his damndest to keep his face blank. They wanted him to suffer, and he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. He might have to give them everything else, but he could at least keep them from seeing him break. He sucked on the barrel, reluctantly at first. Then Hickey forced it further down his throat and murmured, "You can do better than that," and Goodsir did.

He could taste gunpowder and iron on his tongue, the metal bitterly cold (although it had at least been warmed by proximity with Hickey’s skin, or it may have frozen to Goodsir’s lips). Hickey drew the pistol in and out of Goodsir’s mouth, face flushing as if it were his prick and not his pistol in Goodsir’s mouth. He thrust the barrel deep down Goodsir’s throat, making Goodsir gag, and after a few sickening moments withdrew it entirely.

"Don’t bite," Hickey said, tapping the now-wet barrel against Goodsir’s temple. Then he shouted, "Who wants first go at his mouth?"

Someone stepped forward. Goodsir didn’t look up. He didn’t want to see the face of a man he might have treated, comforted, fucking him on Hickey’s orders. The man forced his prick down Goodsir’s throat, no art to his motions. Goodsir breathed shallowly through his nose, trying not to panic. He would just lie back (or forward, as the case may be), keep breathing, and get through this.

The man thrust jerkily into Goodsir’s mouth, hitting the back of his throat.

"He can take it further," Hickey said, hand still in Goodsir’s hair. The other man forced himself forward until Goodsir’s nose was against his stomach, making Goodsir gag at the sudden intrusion into his throat. The man gasped, hands clutching at Goodsir’s hair, and his hips stuttered a few times before he pulled out entirely, spending across Goodsir’s face.

"He could have swallowed," Hickey said, leaning down to look Goodsir in the eyes, "but he _does_ look good like this. He can take someone in the arse while he’s sucking, gentlemen." He pulled a knife from somewhere, waving it in front of Goodsir’s eyes. Then he hopped up onto the table and Goodsir felt the cold of the blade pressed to his back, just above his sacrum, followed by a sharp pain. He bit back a scream.

"That’s one," Hickey murmured, stroking Goodsir’s back to the side of the mark he’d cut. Then he raised his voice to call out, "Sol, break his arse in, why don’t you? You might want to slick him up first so he doesn’t tear your cock off."

Sol – that would be Solomon Tozer, the Marine. He stepped around to Goodsir’s front, running his fingers through the spend that covered Goodsir’s face. Then someone else, a face Goodsir didn’t recognize, pulled his prick out and shoved it in Goodsir’s mouth, and as he thrust in, Tozer forced his fingers into Goodsir’s arse.

It hurt, even with the attempt at easing the way. Goodsir screamed through his mouthful of prick, trying in vain to pull back from both men at once. And then it didn’t hurt any longer, Tozer’s fingers brushing a point that made Goodsir’s nerves sing, and that was worse. Tozer replaced his fingers with his prick, and it hurt and it felt good and his own traitorous prick began to stir to attention.

If they left him facedown, they would never see. Goodsir held onto that fact as Tozer finished and then the man in his mouth did and Hickey carved two more tallies into his back. More men and more and more took their places, and it took all Goodsir had not to bite their filthy pricks off. He stayed erect, fighting the urge to rub against the table for friction. His face burned hot with the shame of it, or maybe the cold. What sort of sick man took pleasure in being assaulted by a pack of traitors? Goodsir, apparently, weak-willed fool that he was.

The whole camp had their way with him, some of them twice, as Hickey sat by and marked each one with a new tally. Goodsir’s face and back were coated in spend, freezing in the Arctic air. When he was satisfied with his men’s comportment, Hickey pulled Goodsir up with a tug at his hair. "Time for you to serve your captain, Mr. Goodsir." His eyes caught on Goodsir’s member, and he grinned, sharp and feral. "Oh, you _have_ been enjoying yourself."

He forced Goodsir onto his back, the rough wood making the marks on his back ache, and bent his legs up to his head. Then he worked his way into Goodsir’s arse, sliding in easily through the mess his men had left.

"There we are," Hickey murmured, beginning to thrust. "I think you’ve found your calling."

Goodsir looked away. Hickey began to fondle his prick, and Goodsir couldn’t help but moan. He bit his lip, trying to keep any further noises from slipping out, but Hickey knew exactly how to touch him to draw out pleasure and keep him on the brink of orgasm. Soon enough, Hickey’s movements grew erratic, and he gasped as he found his release. As he spent, he increased his attentions on Goodsir’s prick, then clutched the base and testicles tightly in his hand as Goodsir spent himself.

It hurt, enough to make Goodsir scream. Hickey grinned again, tapping the edge of his blade on Goodsir’s cheek. "No more than you deserve, hm?" He dug the tip of the knife into the skin just below Goodsir’s eye and drew a line down, leaving him bleeding. "And there’s one for me. I trust you’ll be ready the next time we need entertainment."


End file.
